


Defeat

by sunaddicted



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Internal Monologue, Introspection, M/M, Mairon waits for the end, POV First Person, Sad, and reminisces, my poor cinnamon-roll, oh and Mairon is blind, sorry for my crappy headcanons <3, that's because he has the Eye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My charcoal-grey robes spill languidly over the dusty floor and the veil draped over my face feels like a shroud imbued with scented oils and spices, ready to preserve my corpse from deteriorating – it’s a comforting thought, even if I know my end will come in a blazing fire: there won’t even be bones to conserve in an overly-elaborated shrine worshipping the ghost of what I used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> The narrator is Mairon himself, going over the past and talking to Melkor in his mind while waiting for his final defeat.

_Defeat_

I sit alone in my tower, waiting for this empire I consecrated myself to to crumble beneath my feet – not on the throne, though. That device of intimidation of iron is left to gather dust, its beautifully sculpted and lifeless vines strangling terrified creatures while their poisoned thorns spoil velvety rose petals and sink into feathery breasts; that symbol of grief I gave life to so many centuries ago is bereft of the lukewarm warmth of my flesh as I refuse to wallow in self-pity on the day of my defeat; that reliquary of sorrows abandoned in the moist and heavy darkness in favor of another and more appropriate seat.

The chair accommodating my fragile body is older than many of the silly beings frolicking upon Arda these days; the wood it’s made of is smooth with the passing of time and a little bit charred after the arson that had devoured Angband – my home and sanctuary – when the Valar had carelessly robbed me of my heart, made me a bitter and cruel widower. I had rewarded handsomely the Balrog who had brought it back to me – fruit of an expedition to retrieve anything salvageable from the still smoking ruins of my temple; with trembling fingers I had caressed it, sweeping away the soot with the same tenderness I had used to wipe my tears; with a clouded mind I had sat upon it and felt as if I still was in my fortress, behind the rickety desk in the throne room, orientated to face your gloriously crowned head of dark hair.

My charcoal-grey robes spill languidly over the dusty floor and the veil draped over my face feels like a shroud imbued with scented oils and spices, ready to preserve my corpse from deteriorating – it’s a comforting thought, even if I know my end will come in a blazing fire: there won’t even be bones to conserve in an overly-elaborated shrine worshipping the ghost of what I used to be.

Mairon, the Admirable. How foolish and passionate I was, enslaved to Eru’s lie and entranced by the promise that my hard work would have been fundamental to create a virgin and beautiful word – a promise in which name I imprisoned myself in Aulë’s forges and sweated my existence on my workbench, only for the fruits of my labor to be hardly praised or blatantly shunned when considered too daring. Still, you found me interesting enough to make me your confidant: I listened to your excited and dreamy ramblings while we walked in the forest, I helped you make stronger pedestals for your projects as you braided flowers in my hair, I pledged myself to you – body and mind – under Varda’s sterile and unfeeling stars when we deemed ourselves ready to leave Valinor to reclaim our realm.

The Lieutenant of Angband. How proud and deliriously happy I was, elated by the feeling of having your trust with something so precious as one of your palaces. I roamed its halls with my back straight and my chin defiantly tilted upwards, often accompanied by my friends; I had freely poured laughter from my throat with Gothmog and Thuringwethil flanking me, relieving the weight of responsibility with their rude jokes and affectionate words – how I miss them, almost as much as you, and without the comfort of a reunion in the Void where you have dwelled these past Ages. Enclosed in the safety of those thick walls we had felt invincible as we schemed war after war, as we made love amidst luxurious silks and warm furs, as we fought and screamed abuse at each other during the bad days.

Sauron, the Abhorred. How I felt my sanity crumbling while rage and shame consumed me and you held me in your strong arms, keeping me close to your broad chest as I thrashed wildly in a vain attempt to free myself from the monster I was slowly becoming. They didn’t know what they were doing when they cast that appellative upon me: it was as if I had suddenly been split in two halves, constantly struggling to prevail upon the other; I simultaneously was the adorable and tender Maia with whom you had fallen in love and the bloodthirsty fiend that made every living creature tremble with just a slow smirk painted on its lips – I wasn’t shrouded by their battle only because you pieced them together, whispering to my ear that you loved everything about me. The memories of those words still keep me together, even if there isn’t your hand to cradle my fingers as I immerse myself in another bloodbath.

Gorthaur, the Cruel. How I had scoffed at that title, shrugging in my armor as I heard those idiotic Elves roll it down their tongues: cruelty didn’t bother me as much as the accusation of being a freak of nature. I kept torturing bodies in our dungeons, sending them back barely recognizable to stoke my newfound reputation of a relentless tormentor. And how I fully claimed that label when you were first taken away from my embrace, chained to a wall in the Halls of Mandos.

Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. How I shrouded my grief in beauty and set myself to extract my revenge upon every useless creature that still dared to walk on Arda when you were forever beyond my reach. I whored my body to lowly Elves and their disgusting kings, seducing them into doing my bidding and erecting temples in your honor. I became the High Priest who directed unworthy and soiled souls to your worship and took comfort as I watched them sacrifice their kin to please an exiled god: I mourned your loss in grandiose manner, dragging down with me entire demesnes. I weaved illusions, made them trust me and bound their souls to mine with simple rings that they wore with pride, without acknowledging the strength of my control over them through the One Ring – the constant reminder of our spiritual marriage, in which honor I carried on with your projects.

The Necromancer. How I drowned myself into the Dark Arts in the attempt to bring you back after the War of Wrath, my fingers aching with the need to find the handle of the Door of Night and free you from the Void. I have gained lots of power while dabbing with Death, bent Nature’s curse to my will, but I still don’t know how to put an end to your imprisonment – not that it matters, now that I’m joining you. I sit alone in my tower, fingers knotted in my lap and my unseeing eyes cast downwards.

The Eye burning in the dark sky amidst venomous clouds hungrily follows the Hobbit with its pupil, catching the enticing glinting of the One Ring hanging from his sweaty neck: once upon a time I would have wrung it without much thought and be done with him. But I’ve grown tired of my solitude encased in cold sheets and eternal darkness as I steadily lost my sight and my body weakened: only the procession of burning eyes hovering around me like a frazzled and demonic halo keeps me company while showing me the world through their simmering irises, just like the Eye at the top of this wretched building – I’ve gained omniscience when my pupils finally failed me.

Every muscle pulls taut in a seizure as I feel the Ring-Bearer near the sensual river of magma, his tiny body shaking with the effort of the long and desperate quest and the internal battle shredding his heart: he wants to fall prey to the enchant of my seduction, to close his eyes and sigh deeply as my melodious voice fills every niche of his mind like swirling and choking smoke – but he doesn’t give in: he’s a strong one, that much I have to admit.

I sit in my tower – not alone anymore. I don’t need to turn my head to look at the grim Valar that have come to take me: a couple of my flaming eyes does it for me. There are all the faces I expected to see and a grim smile pulls my facial muscles behind the protection of my veil as I witness the unchanging and unsurprising nature of those Anuir, feeling once again trapped in the cage of Valinor’s ever-repeating routine.

Aulë stands a couple of steps closer than the others, sorrow and regret etched all over his rough features that remind me so much of the Dwarves, his rightful children. Bittersweet affection thrums through my veins: this spirit used to be my mentor, the one I went to when I felt overwhelmed and in need of a kind word.

Manwë and Varda are just behind the blacksmith, half-hidden by his broad shoulders. I sneer because, honestly, your righteous brother and his bitch of a wife annoy me to no end: since the beginning they had tried to force us apart, refusing to accept our love, and have tormented us in every possible way – the Valacirca splattered all over the night sky just an example.

Mandos is almost one with the darkness and his presence is the only one that truly makes sense to me: I’m going to die and, even if I’m not destined to his Halls, he’s the Vala who embodies Death.

I don’t give them time to prod me into facing my destiny. I get up in one slow and fluid movement that hides perfectly the weakness of my too thin legs and walk towards them, arms spread to show them I’m completely at their mercy and not willing to put up a useless fight: it is as if I’m eagerly embracing my damnation – but it’s no damnation in my eyes if there’s you waiting for me at the bottom of its pit.

Shadows envelope me as I’m chained with a mail that nullifies my powers, making my eyes disappear in tiny puffs of smoke and compelling me to pay more attention to what I hear to orient myself. I tremble with fear and excitement as my tower is shaken abruptly and a knife made of pure light slashes through my brain as the One Ring falls into the smoldering lava.

Destroyed and Freed.

“Hello, Little Flame” Your voice is syrupy and spicy caramel poured directly into my ears.

I open my eyes in the Void, with my peripheral vision I catch a flash of crimson – the first color I’ve been able to see without my magic’s aid after centuries – and I know my hair have bleed back to red from the snowy-white they had turned to after the fall of Númenor “Hello, Mel”

There’s a blinding smile on your face and uncaring of our audience I run into your arms, eager to feel protected and whole again. I barely hear the heavy thump of the Door of Night being locked behind my back as your supple mouth melts over mine and you kiss me, breathe life back into my dry lungs.

Imprisoned and Reborn.

“I love you, Little Flame”

And I choke on my thumping heart because I love you too and I can’t believe I’m finally at your side again “Me too”

Eru, you and your children, you’re all fools; an eternity exiled in the Void with my One is not a punishment: it’s a blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> So... I both like and loathe this work (I wrote this also in Italian and it has a completely different structure that I like better: my native language suits my writing style better and it unnerves me sometimes)  
> Let me know and thanks for stopping by <3


End file.
